


The Regrettably Supernatural and Arguably Scientific Art of Becoming Trustworthy

by Darjeweling



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Hannibal (TV), Sherlock (TV), Supernatural, crossover - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Humor, Drama, Gen, Ratings may change, Superwholock, Trigger Warning: implied suicide, Work In Progress, more like SuperHanniWhoLock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 21:27:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2083761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darjeweling/pseuds/Darjeweling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And the words that the Doctor was thinking as his eyes moved across each of the many faces, words that he could never possibly say, that hurt to so much as think, were these:</p><p>'I don't believe I have ever been in a room so full of people who have all died before.'"</p><p>Two monster hunters, two amateur sleuths, and one Time Lord, all looking for Clara Oswald. Throw in one cannibalistic serial killer and one psychologically unstable profiler, mix well, and serve immediately before the universe can object.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a multi-chapter, four-way crossover fanfiction piece involving the well-known and well-loved TV shows Doctor Who, Supernatural, Sherlock, and Hannibal. There are no spoilers for the most recent series/episodes, and only a very basic understanding of each show's concept is really required to follow. Set pre-series 7 part 2 for Doctor Who, beginning of Season 6 for Supernatural, mid-season 2 for Sherlock, and mid-season 1 for Hannibal.
> 
> It's a work in progress but I'll do my best to regularly update.

'Dean.'

One syllable, and that was all it took. Dean Winchester looked across through the heaviness of the forest's night, so dense that torchlight barely pierced five feet. Some way ahead Sam was motionless, crouched down with one hand extended to touch something only he could see. 

Oh crap. That was never good. 

'Let me guess,' Dean sighed, trudging through the undergrowth to reach his brother, 'Two days dead, putrefying and covered in miscellaneous bodily fluids?'

'None of the above,' Sam murmured. He looked up, and their eyes met. 'This one's got a pulse.'

'Wait, what?' Dean moved closer and shone his own light down. His brows fell in dismay. 'Oh.'

She may have had a pulse, but whether she was alive was debatable. The woman's face was pale and bloodless, her lips a deathly blue. The sleeves of her top were rolled to the elbows, and the knife in her slack hands was as red as the slashed skin exposed there.

'Another suicide, huh?'

'Not quite,' said Sam, closely scrutinising her neck and face. 'This one's different.'

'Different how?'

'No sigil on the neck, for one. EMF's quiet, and there's no sulphur.' Sam eased the knife out of the girl's ghostly white hands to hold one torn wrist up for examination. 'Blood's drying, but not much. We can't have been half an hour behind her. Another half hour more we'd have been too late.'

Dean shone his light up and down across the body – across the _woman_ , he reminded himself. She wasn't dead yet. It was definitely her, the one who was alerted missing three days ago. Clara Oswald. Twenty-four. She was the kind of rich and haunting beauty that lent itself to the heroines of fairytales rather than the victims of a hunting trip, and whether it was from the trauma of actively trying to cut the life out of yourself or her natural physiognomy he didn't know, but she had the saddest set of features he had ever seen.

He couldn't help but notice that she might have been hot as well as beautiful at one point, though this was not an observation he cared to share.

'You reckon it's still in her? If it ever was, that is.'

Sam shrugged. 'Might have bailed once it thought the job was done, but it could just as likely still be lurking inside. No way of knowing out here.' Sliding an arm below Clara Oswald's slight frame he lifted her up, drawing her limp body against his. Her head turned into the crook of his neck with the action and dark hair fell over Sam's shoulder, revealing long, thin gashes across her neck. Dean's stomach twisted at the sight. She had tried to slit her own throat.

'Let's get back to the motel, get this over with,' said Sam.

'Right, yeah. Better move it, Raggedy Ann's going to last much longer without a bandaid.' Dean indicated a dark red stain already spreading across Sam's shirt. 

They tramped back to the edge of the woods where the Impala and Sam's shiny Dodge sat waiting. A makeshift tourniquet on their charge later and the two black rides roared off into the night.

Neither of them paid any attention to the anomalous blue shape, a 1960s-style London police box, on the side of the road. Had they done they would have dismissed it as imaginary, for it vanished shortly after they did. 

~

 

Dean wasted no time calling the angel on his shoulder to report their latest update.

'Sam's got her, we're on our way back to the motel now to do the ritual. If she makes it, that is, girl's bleeding worse than my oil valve.'

' _You really need to fix that, Dean,_ ' Castiel said reproachfully on the other end of the line. His voice was faint; Dean had a sneaking suspicion the angel was holding his cell upside down again.

'Well excuse me if I've been a little busy, averting apocalypses isn't exactly a part time gig you know,' he grumbled in response, taking a sharp left in an attempt to cut across Sam's speedy sedan and failing.

' _I wasn't referring to your valve, Dean, I meant the girl. We need her alive._ '

'Yeah, about that,' Dean saw his opening and latched on. 'What the hell is going on, Cas? How are suicides and demonic omens related? I mean, demons yanking some kid and riding them, that I get, but these guys are going freakin' Vivaldi on the old wrist violin. You said before it wasn't possession?'

' _As far as I can tell, no. The demons appear to be driving these people to suicide without the aid of total control. Or any kind of control. Their end game can surely only be the same—_ '

'Damning souls to Hell, right.'

'— _but their means are what is making me uneasy. This is not something I have ever heard of before. It's completely unprecedented._ '

'So what, demons are getting creative now, is that it?' Sam was completely showing off, thought Dean with a scowl, forced once more to accelerate. The Impala responded with a whine of protest.

' _That is a plausible theory. It is vital that we talk to this girl, this is the first time one of the victims have survived._ '

'What's getting at me is this,' said Dean. 'Sam said there was something different about this one. The girl, there were no demonic indicators at all, and that – that sigil, the squiggly triangle thing with the eye, that was missing too. I'm just thinking, how do we know we aren't just about to exorcise some bog-standard suicide of a phantom demon?'

' _We have no way of knowing until we try. The victim, does she fit the description of the missing girl?_ '

'Yeah, it's gotta be her. Dark hair, full lips, English rose, you know the type.'

'Er—’

'So how long do you think you'll be? We could really use the divine assistance here. We're coming up to the motel now.' And so they were. Dean accelerated rapidly as Sam slowed in preparation to park; he couldn't hide his grin as he sped past in time to occupy his brother's chosen spot. _Victory._

' _I can't say, Dean. I'm in the subterranean foundations of the Tower of Babylon as we speak._ '

'What? Why?'  And, more strange, 'How'd you get signal?'

' _I'm working on locating an ancient cross of Isterian origin. It should be able to determine the faintest essence of any demonic inhabitance._ '

Sam had got out of his car and was holding his palms up at Dean in the universal sign for _What the hell, man?_

'Okay, well let me know if you get anywhere with that, sounds pretty good. Gotta go Cas, keep looking buddy, hope to see you soon.'

' _Yes, and you too, De—'_

Dean snapped his phone shut and cranked his door open, wearing as politely confused a look as he was capable. 'I'm sorry, did you want that space?'

Sam coughed out an incoherent noise familiar as exasperation. Dean continued with a pat on his little brother's shoulder. 'Gotta be faster than that if you want to beat a '67 Chevy, Sammy.' He walked on, room keys in hand. 'You get Miss Virgin Suicides over there, I'll get the Trap sorted.'

In the olden days Sam would have responded with a pissed retort, or at least some sardonic dig at his immaturity. Dean was all too aware of the silence behind him as he jerked the keys into their door, feeling the bitter Minnesota winter deeper than before as coldness descended within. That was another matter he needed Cas for.

~

 

Sam's shirt was covered in blood. And Clara Oswald was covered in blood. Even in the warmth of the motel very little colour had returned to her face. As Dean worked on chalking sigils on the kitchenette linoleum, Sam had no choice but to see to her wounds before she bled out on his bed. Kneeling beside her recumbent form he untied the rags around her wrists and, for the first time in the light, inspected the damage.

If he hadn't known better he might have attributed the wounds to a ghoul, one seriously fucked-up wraith or at least a dozen other creatures of the supernatural. Sam Winchester, of course, had seen far worse, and was unfazed as he set to work cleaning up the wounds, stitching the deepest slits with dental floss. Thoroughness was not a priority: they needed her alive long enough to interrogate and identify the thing inside of her. He worked quickly, pushing aside his natural tendency to perfectionism, and was finishing tying the limp body to a chair within the Devil's Trap when he heard the familiar flutter of wings behind him. Dean's usual involuntary stutter as he jumped out of his skin followed. 

'Dammit Cas!' Sam heard him exclaim. 'Would it kill you to use a door for once?'

A pause, and Sam could just imagine Cas's little cock of the head in confusion. Right on cue: 'Uh, no, Dean. I am a celestial being of Heaven: a door would be unable to kill me.' 

Sam poked his head around the doorway, just as the angel asked, always down to business, 'Where is she?'

'In here,' Sam inclined his head in indication. Castiel's features did not change as they swept up and down all six and a half foot of him, taking in the blood on his hands, his shirt, even on his face from where he'd backhanded his fringe out of the way. The angel's gaze passed beyond, maybe even through the divider. He moved beside Clara Oswald's slack form and placed two fingers to her forehead in a position both Winchesters were familiar enough with from the amount of times it had healed them.

Nothing happened.

There was a moment's confused silence. The angel placed his whole hand across the woman's forehead. Faint white light spread from his downturned palm as he concentrated. From several feet away Sam could feel the hairs on his arms rising from the sheer power emanating from that hand.

Nothing.

'Cas, what the hell?' Dean's voice was soft.

Castiel turned slowly to face both brothers. 'I don't know.' Though his words were calm, his features spoke the concern his pride would not. 'For some reason... I cannot heal her.'

'The demons,' said Sam immediately. 'Would they be able to pull this off?'

'Maybe,' Castiel looked deep in thought. 'There is old lore of such enchantments that are capable of repelling our magic. I must look into this at once.' 

'Wait, Cas, hold on a sec—' Dean began.

One soft downbeat of incorporeal wings, sufficient to ruffle all three humans' hair, and the angel was gone.

'Well next time at least drop off your freakin' Wisterian cross before you kiss goodbye!' Dean yelled at the ceiling. 'Freakin' angels. 

'Actually,' came a voice from the door, 'it's _Isterian._ Hard _e_ , don't draw it out.'

It was pure, natural instinct, born from years of practice, years of survival, that made both Winchesters spin on their heels within a heartbeat and have both hands wrapped around the nearest weapon, pointed right at the intruder. 

The intruder who, on having both a .45 and sawed-off shotgun aimed directly at his chest, only smiled hugely, as though nothing could have pleasured him more. And it wasn't even the usual creepy kind that demons were so fond of, the sort that didn't reach its owner's eyes. It seemed genuine.

'Definitely the Winchesters, then,' the man beamed, clapping his hands together. 'How good to finally make your acquaintance.'

'And who the hell are you?' Dean growled. 'What, you demons allergic to doorbells?'

'Demon?' The man looked positively hurt. 'I'm not a demon.'

'Then what are you?' Sam tightened his grip on the shotgun. The man's overlarge forehead made a perfect target.

'I,' said the man, straightening his little bow tie with obvious pride, 'am the Doctor.'

The Winchesters exchanged the briefest of glances.

'Doctor who?' they asked in unison.

'Ah,' said the Doctor, wiggling his brows. 'Now that, my fellows, would be telling.'


	2. Chapter 2

'John.'

One syllable, and that was certainly not enough to capture the man in question's attention. He was still on the phone to the local sheriff, taking short notes and responding with the occasional 'Right,' or 'Okay.'

'John,' said Sherlock Holmes, louder.

'Mmhm. Right. Crawford, was that?'

'JOHN!'

'Just excuse me a sec, please.' John Watson covered the mouthpiece with his hand and rounded on his companion. ' _What_ , Sherlock, just _what?_ '

'That police box outside the motel.'

'What?' 

'Up ahead, on the right.'

'What, that big blue thing?'

'Yes. It's from Nineteen-sixties London. Rather odd to be in twenty-first century Minnesota, don't you think?'

'I – I don't know, Sherlock. Is it?'

'There was one exactly like it by the roadside as the Winchesters appeared with Miss Oswald. And – oh, look.' 

On the GPS device in his hands the little red dot they had been tracking, its counterpart attached to a certain black Chevrolet, began to flash. They had arrived.

'Pull up behind that tree, John.'

'Sherlock, just what exactly are you planning on doing? Barging in on them?'

The world's only consulting detective shot his companion a small smile. 'What I do best, John. _Observe._ '

~

 

'Now,' continued the man who called himself the Doctor. 'Sorry to barge in on you uninvited like this – terribly rude of me I know – but this is very, very important.' He held up a missing persons poster, and his expression was suddenly very grave indeed. 'I know you've seen this woman. I know you were with her. And you are going to tell me right this moment where I can find her.'

On the poster before them was a graduation photograph of Clara Oswald, all rosy cheeks and dimpled smile, pressed shirt neat against her robe. Dean had been right. She was a real stunner when her wrists weren't bleeding the life force from her.

'Also, if you don't mind my asking,' the Doctor turned to Sam and said quite bluntly, 'Why are you covered in blood?'

It didn't take long. Sam didn't even need to speak. You could almost see the cogs turning inside the stranger's mind; see within those big brown eyes as the facts clicked into place. His lips parted. His hands fell to his sides.

'Oh no.' Heedless of the outstretched guns he strode between the brothers and then, catching sight of the Devil's Trap, rushed forward to the limp and bloodied figure bound within. 'Oh nononono, oh Clara, no...'

The brothers apparently forgotten, he sank to his knees before her on the chalk-smeared floor and placed his fingers to her neck for a pulse. The other hand was instantly in his jacket pockets fishing out what looked like some kind of screwdriver of strange metals and textures, which shone green light from its end as he scanned it up and down her body. From behind him the Winchesters flinched at the unearthly, whirring hum it emitted, but Sam held out an arm to stop his brother interfering. 

'Tell me what you did to her!' demanded the Doctor, opening an eyelid and shining the strange light within as though it could provide the answers. He put it away and took her wrist within his hands, leaning forward to squint at the already-blood-stained gauze.

Again, he needed no answer, and Sam and Dean did not offer one. The facts were all there. He studied the wrists again, then looked up to her neck at the parallel scratch marks, then back down again. He took in the cuts on her hands that Sam's handiwork had left uncovered. The miserable downturn of her mouth. The dried tear tracks through her makeup.

'Oh Clara, what did you do to yourself?' he whispered, taking her lolling head between both hands and touching their foreheads together. 'Oh Clara Clara Clara...'

Dean cleared his throat awkwardly. 'Look, uh... Doctor...? I get that this is some big emotional reunion for you two, and I'm sorry, but we're kind of in the middle of something here.'

The Doctor looked up at them, standing side by side, still holding their weapons. 'And what's that?' he asked, and the expression on his face could only be described as ingenuity.

Dean drew out the moment with an awkward facsimile of a chuckle. 'It's... It's nothing. You just really need to leave, like, right now. Come back this time in a couple of hours and she's all yours.'

The Doctor still looked nonplussed. 'Why would I want to do that?'

There was no sugarcoating to be had from Sam. 'Because we're about to exorcise her, that's why.'

Dean shot him a scathing look. ' _Dude._ Really.'

The Doctor rose slowly to his feet. ' _Exorcise_ her?' Incredulity drew his accent up by several octaves. 'From what exactly?'

'A demon.' Sam was pitiless.

'A _demon_? But that's ridiculous!'

'Yeah, yeah, we know,' grunted Dean tiredly. 'How is this possible, demons aren't real, there's no such thing as monsters—'

'There's no need to waste your energy. I've exorcised more than a few demons in my time and believe me, there is nothing of the sort inside this young woman.' The Doctor spun back round to Clara and whipped out the screwdriver thing again, which he scanned quickly across the rope binding her. 'This thing would have picked up possession a mile away, and if not then the sulphur alone—’

'Whoa whoa, back the fuck up.' Dean strode forward and clamped a hand on the Doctor's to stop his progress in untying. 'You mind telling us what the hell is going on here? I thought you said you were a doctor.'

'Let go of my hand, Dean Winchester.' The man's voice dropped dangerously.

'Oh I will, pal, but not until you start talking. What, you think you can just swan in here with your big smile and your – your _screwdriver_ and expect us to just hand you the girl, is that it? We don't know _what_ is inside that Trap right now and until we do,she is not going anywhere.'

The Doctor stared up at him in apparent disbelief. 'This girl is innocent and of no threat—'

' _Bull_.'

'—and _you are hurting her_.'

'She's unconscious.'

'She's bleeding!'

'All right, everyone just shut up, okay?' said Sam loudly. He came and stood between the two. He stared at the Doctor and cut straight to the chase. 'You said she's not possessed. If it's not a demon then what is it?'

'Sam!' Dean glared at his brother. 'Can we please focus on the more pressing matter of the moment, which is exactly who the hell this guy is, what he's doing here, and what the actual fuck that _thing_ is!' He indicated the screwdriver-shaped bulge in the Doctor's pocket.

'What, this?' said the Doctor innocently, pulling it out and looking it up and down. 'It's my sonic screwdriver, this is. Clever little thing, so long as you don't put a piece of wood in front of it.' He shone it in front of him for display, and Dean jumped back with a scowl. 'No need to worry, it's perfectly harmless, mostly. It's how I tracked you both here actually, once it caught Clara's scent.' He smiled genially and put it away. 'As for who I am I already told you: I'm the Doctor. Just the Doctor. I'm a friend of mankind's, and this world is in my protection, so you need not fear me.

'And if you need me to repeat why I'm here then you're not nearly as smart as your reputation led me to believe. I'm here for Clara, and that is all. She's a dear friend of mine, and I will not lose her again. Any more questions?'

'Yeah, I can think of a few,' Dean growled. His fingers twitched around his lowered gun. 'Starting with how do we know we can trust you?'

'Well, that's the tricky thing about trust, isn't it?' said the Doctor with a little smile. 'It can't be bought, it can't be requested – not really. At the end of the day, well, the only way anyone ever gets trusted is when they're given a chance, and things just sort of go from there until one day, you have it. So, gentlemen, I suppose this is me asking you to give me a chance – and I'll give you one in return. What do you say?'

'I say you can take your chance and shove it up your sorry—’

'So what you're saying,' Sam interjected, 'is that until we've earned each others' trust, we're just going to have to trust each other? That's your logic?'

The Doctor shrugged. 'Sounds about right, yes.'

'Then I'm in,' said Sam firmly, lowering his gun. 

'Sam,' barked Dean in warning.

'I'm not forcing you to do the same, Dean.' Sam threw his gun on the bed and stared hard at their visitor. 'But we're not letting the girl go, Doctor. Not until we know what we're dealing with.'

The Doctor drummed his fingers on his chin in thought. 'Ah!' he said suddenly. 'Give me five minutes.'

~

 

John looked down at the mug shots of Sam and Dean Winchester in his lap, then back through his binoculars. 'Not so dead after all then, are you?' he murmured.

'The girl's alive,' Sherlock informed him, staring through his own pair.

'How can you tell? Christ, that Sam bloke's a real moose in real life, isn't he?'

'The third man, the stranger. He checked her pulse and then continued to examine her wounds. And whoever he is he obviously cares about her welfare, judging from the delicate manner in which he is now holding her.'

Sherlock focused in on the gangly stranger's face as he turned momentarily within view. He was smiling adoringly at the girl in his arms like one would to a child, and presently reached across to brush her hair from her face, before ducking out of view. Sherlock panned over to the Winchesters, who were only watching.

'Interesting,' Sherlock murmured. 

'What's interesting?'

'With him in the picture an escalation into a hostage situation would appear less likely. He won't allow any harm to befall Clara Oswald.'

'Well, that's good news. Are you done yet? Time to bring in the professionals?'

Sherlock snorted. 'A rather generous description, but yes. Make the call, John.'

~

 

Within five minutes the Doctor had drawn a new, larger Devil's Trap across the floor, placed Clara in the recovery position within it, and produced a little packet of some kind of jam-filled cookies from the depths of his jacket to lay on a plate beside her. The Winchesters only watched, mystified.

'There!' he exclaimed triumphantly, jumping to his feet. 'Now that is what I call successful compromise!'

'The hell are those things?' Dean grumpily indicated the biscuits with a foot.

'Jammy Dodgers! Marvellous creation, you don't have them over here, do you? They fix that soon, if I remember correctly. Help yourself, please.'

'I'm not hungry.' Dean ignored Sam's cough of scepticism. 

'You're sure?' the Doctor picked up one himself and took a good bite. Jam oozed from its soft, crumbly centre, and Dean had to force himself to look away. 'Right then. Let's get down to business, shall we? Once we tidy up this regrettably supernatural matter then I'll be out of your hair, and we can go our separate ways.' He clapped his hands together. 'So, Sam. Tell me the road so far. Dean, could you please tell me where I might find the tea bags and I'll get us a brew going?'

~

 

'The police are on their way,' John informed his companion the moment he had hung up. 'Sheriff said they'll be five minutes.'

Sherlock steepled his fingers in his lap. 'This is all terribly exciting,' he said with a yawn.

~

 

'No teabags? What are you, heathens?'

~

 

She was lying on her side on cold hard floor. There was the sweet smell of something edible beside her. There were voices above her. And she hurt. God, how she hurt.

This was either Hell, and she had succeeded, or this was Hell on Earth, and she had failed.

~

 

'Can you describe this symbol to me, Sam? The sigil you saw on the victims' necks?'

'Here,' Sam grabbed a napkin and pen and sketched out first a rough triangle with strange crimped lines, then a great slitted eye within. He had barely lifted pen from paper when the Doctor snatched it up and brought it right to his face.

'Oh dear,' he murmured, eyes scanning all around the triangle. 'Oh dear oh dear, this is certainly not good...'

'What now?' Dean groaned.

~

 

'They're here. Sherlock, they're here.'

~

 

'Sam, these kinks of the triangle,' said the Doctor, 'are they exactly as they appeared on the bodies?'

'Uh, yeah,' Sam looked closer at his work. 'Yeah, I thought they were random at first but by the fourth appearance there was a clear similarity. I knew then it wasn't just an unsteady cutter but something specific, some kind of language, maybe? It's not like anything I've ever come across before.'

'Well I wouldn't expect you to have ever come across _this_ language, given that it went extinct twenty million years ago on a planet in your galaxy's next-door-neighbour.'

~

 

It was a lovely voice, that British one. Cultured and silvery, with enunciation that could cut butter. She could listen to it forever.

~

 

'Aliens? _Aliens?_ Are you freakin' _kidding me?_ '

~

 

'They must be on their floor by now. Any moment now, surely...'

~

 

'Yes, yes, I know. Aliens aren't real, how is this possible—'

'Alien or not, you powdered dick, I will stab you in the face.'

~

 

His words had no meaning, all the syllables melding into one, nothing more than the sweet lullaby of times long forgotten, lives long forgotten...

~

 

There was an almighty crash from behind them as the door was kicked open with enough force to rock it on its hinges.

'FREEZE!'

'DON'T MOVE!'

'GET DOWN ON THE GROUND!'

' _GET DOWN ON THE GROUND!_ '

'DROP THE SCREWDRIVER!'

'PUT YOUR HANDS ABOVE YOUR HEAD!'

'Aarghsh!' said Sam as he was pushed face-first into the Lino.

'Ooufgh,' said the Doctor as he was shoved against the wall.

'Son of a b— _aargh!_ ' said Dean as he was thrust down beside his brother.

~

 

Sherlock closed his eyes in satisfaction as the ruckus from the motel carried to their hiding spot. 'An evening well spent, I'd say.' He smiled languidly. 'Wouldn't you agree, John?'

'For Chrissake Sherlock, we're supposed to be on _holiday._ ' John had to turn to hide his smile.

Sherlock saw it anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

The paramedics had seen to Clara. And the special agent had seen to Clara. And his colleagues had seen to Clara. It felt like most of Minnesota was seeing to Clara. Swathed in a thin orange blanket on a sofa in the local sheriff's office, cradling her re-bandaged wrists to her chest, Clara Oswald had yet to say a word. She stared unseeingly into space, focusing on containing all her senses and all her thoughts within the tiniest circle of nothingness she could conjure. There was the world, and there was her. There could be no reconciling the two.

The paramedics called it shock. Like she was just surprised. They called it mental trauma, and severe blood loss, and unprovoked attack. They told her she was safe now, her three attackers behind bars. They gave her painkillers. What they couldn't understand was that the pain was in places no medicine could touch.

The FBI team were still in the motel room but their special agent, a burly, dark-skinned man of perhaps fifty, had stayed with her for questioning. A prominent gap between his front teeth showed when he talked, in a deep and rumbling voice, and he spoke gently. Clara had opened her mouth, but no sounds could escape her. 

Another colleague of his was on his way, Special Agent Crawford told her. A psychological profiler, the best in his field. Clara made herself nod in response. Crawford left her alone eventually, with the suggestion that she sleep. He seemed to know the futility of his words even as he spoke them.

For a while, she was alone.

Then there were sudden voices down the corridor, heavy footsteps. Clara tried to block them out.

'Could you just try to, you know, _not be you_ , for once?' said the first. It was a he, and he sounded irritable.

'What do you mean? What's wrong with me?' Deeper voice. Dominant male.

'Well, stop pissing off the Americans, for one thing," said the first voice. "What I mean is, can you just try to be nice, okay? She's in shock.'

'"Nice?" How do you mean, "nice"?'

'I mean _nice_ , Sherlock,' the voice lowered in volume as they came closer. ' _Friendly_ , maybe. _Considerate._ '

Two silhouettes appeared against the frosted glass of the office door, followed by a brief knock, before the owners of the voices came in. And not quietly, like the paramedics, or Crawford, or his colleagues, but full-on _sweeping_ in, the first to enter like a storm disguised as a man, his long grey coat billowing behind the lengthy stride of his legs, and his eyes like sparks. Perhaps his smaller companion was the thunder to the first's lightning, for though he walked in the wake of his companion he held no less presence. 

The coldest eyes met Clara's as she looked into those of the lightning man. They were pale and sharp and, as they searched all five foot five of her from head to toe, frighteningly piercing. Penetrating. She might have shrank back had she any survival instinct left.

He strode forward until he was right in front of her, until she was forced to tilt her head to still meet his stare, and when he spoke it was with the deeper voice.

'You weren't attacked,' he said lowly, with that voice too dark for his unlined face. 'You weren't cut by those men. They did not harm you.' His stare held no pity, no sympathy. 'You did this to yourself, Clara Oswald. This is the result of your failed suicide.'

Clara couldn't help her eyebrows lowering in confusion. She worked some moisture in her throat to utter the question she needed to, but no sound left her.

'How can I tell?' The man could guess nonetheless. 'How can I, when nobody else has even suggested your wounds were self inflicted?' The stranger indicated her arms. 'Your left wrist is bleeding more than your right: the cuts are deeper there, and there are more of them. You're right-handed – you used your dominant hand to cut, thus your left wrist suffered more. Had you been attacked they would have been cut equally.'

Clara's lips parted as her throat closed.

The stranger continued, talking faster now, impatient to finish his denouement. 'You have several dried pine needles in your hair, and dirt beneath your nails. Your attempt to end your life did not occur in the motel room where you were found but in a forest, no doubt the conifer plantation several miles west of here. Whether it was disorientation from blood loss or panic at having yet to die you fell to your knees –' he indicated the dirty knees of her torn tights '– and it was at that point when your desperation peaked sufficiently for you to try slitting your own throat, as the cuts there are much shallower: lying on the ground is not an ideal position to attempt this. As, apparently, you soon found out.'

Clara had not expected herself to cry. She was not that kind of woman.

'After that one can only assume you did pass out from blood loss, and that you likely would have bled out alone in that forest for the police to find a week later.' The man raised a brow. 'But you survived, because you were found.'

'All right, Sherlock, that's enough,' the other man said with a sigh. 'You're brilliant, you're a genius, yes, we already know that. You've made your point.' He pushed past him and sat on the sofa beside Clara, who had ducked her head forward to hide the wetness down her cheeks. 'Do you mind if I just have a quick look? I'm a doctor.'

Clara sniffed and wiped her eyes, tears bleeding like spent pride.

The man named Sherlock was still staring at her hard enough for his gaze to feel like physical contact. 'Now, if those three men in the cell had nothing to do with your personal crisis in the forest, then it does raise an interesting question.'

'Save it for their interrogation, Sherlock,' the doctor rolled his eyes with a kindly smile at her. 'Pay no attention to him, he's always like this. Could I see this arm here please? There we go, that's great, just hold still. I'm John Watson; this is, unfortunately, my associate, Sherlock Holmes.'

Sherlock Holmes went on as though uninterrupted and mused aloud, 'Where do they fit in with the story? Two wanted criminals back from the dead, and a walking John Doe. What could they want with a failed suicide?'

'Sherlock, shut up. This is still bleeding very badly, Clara, did they stitch you up?'

Clara nodded, then looked up to Sherlock again. She opened her mouth but, like a fish, only air came out. She blinked helplessly at the doctor.

'Elective mutism,' murmured Sherlock Holmes. 'Interesting.'

Clara only wrapped her blanket closer like the crumpled rags of her dignity.

'Here, use my pen,' John Watson was reaching into his breast pocket and soon found a scrap of paper. 

_I want to see them_ , Clara wrote. She turned the paper for them to read. Their eyes flicked quickly over it.

'No,' said John, as Sherlock said 'certainly.' He glared at the taller man. 'Sherlock, this woman needs rest and quiet, and preferably some pressure on this bandage. Doctor's orders, all right? She's staying.'

Clara looked at the doctor with her huge, sad eyes, and she was pleading.

And John looked between them both, and knew he was outvoted.

~

 

It was a small cell, for a large town. Sam and the Doctor were sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the tiny bench while Dean, who had been frankly destroyed in the rock-paper-scissors rounds, leaned against the bare brick wall with crossed arms and a scowl.

The Doctor blew air noisily from the side of his mouth to ruffle his fringe. He tapped his left foot, followed by his right. He tapped them both. He tapped each a beat apart in a little rhythm.

Dean turned to glare at him. 'You gonna do that all night?'

The Doctor silenced his fidgety feet. 'I'm only trying to lighten the atmosphere.'

'Please don't,' Sam sighed. 'Dean, are you sure you called Cas right?'

'I tried. He ain't answering.'

'Well try again, we need him.' 

'So is this Castiel your angel, then?' asked the Doctor with interest. 'How fascinating. I've never known the seraphim to take such personal interest in one person before. You should feel very fortunate.'

'Utterly blessed.'

'Well we could certainly use his assistance as soon as possible. Unless somebody's kind enough to pass my screwdriver through.'

'What, you can't use your magical alien powers to shazzam it in here?'

'My abilities don't stretch to telekinesis, I'm afraid. " _Shazzam_ ", what a marvellous word. Why don't you use your magical powers of friendship to shazzam your angel in here?'

'All right, all right, both of you, shut up,' Sam groaned. 'If we're going to get out of here we're going to have to work together. We're not each other's enemies, okay?'

'No,' said a deep voice musingly. 'But I might be.'

The three of them started to attention as a tall, dark figure rounded the corner to stare inside their cell. He was around thirty, dark-haired and smartly dressed, wearing a long grey coat and blue scarf. At his side was a slightly smaller fellow of stockier build and fairer hair, and bringing up the rear, holding her bandaged wrists to her chest, was Clara Oswald.

The Doctor bounded immediately to his feet. 'Clara!' he exclaimed, joy illuminating his face from the inside. 'My goodness, look at you! Don't you look better.'

Clara only stared at him with wide eyes. She looked scared, confused.

The Doctor's face fell. 'Oh. You... You don't recognise me, do you?'

Clara's lovely face was so very pale. Gone were the comely little smirks, the dimples from her smile. When she shook her head, all the fire that he knew and loved was gone from her eyes, and in her silence all the cleverness and wit, the cheeky irreverence. She was as much a stranger to him as he was to her, and that, more than anything else of the night, knocked all the wind from him.

'So, you mooks more FBI then?' said Dean tonelessly. 'Oh good, we were starting to get lonely down here.'

'I'm not FBI,' drawled the dark-haired man. 'You might call me an enthusiast.'

'We already told the FBI everything,' said Sam impatiently. 'Who the hell are you?'

'Well, actually, I was rather hoping to talk about you. Sam Winchester. Dean.' His gaze met each brother as he said their names. 'Back from the dead. Multiple times, such has my research led me to believe.'

'Yeah, well, then your research must be wrong,' Dean deadpanned. 'People don't just keep dying, asshat.'

The Doctor's eyes flicked involuntarily to Clara, who caught his gaze for a half-second before he looked away.

The stranger stared impassively into Dean's eyes. 'Don't deny what I already know. It's tiring. Now, shall we skip to the interesting parts? Starting with...' He turned to the Doctor. 'You.'

The Doctor blinked. 'Me?'

'Must I reiterate myself?'

'The FBI told us they couldn't find any prints on you,' said John Watson. He was stood tall, hands folded behind his back, a practiced and confident stance. 'No ID, either. And they can't find you on anybody's records.'

'Well that's not right at all, I showed them my ID! It's over there with all my effects.'

Confiscating the Doctor's effects had been a particularly arduous business for the officer assigned the task. They had just seemed to have gone on and on. It was almost as though they were bigger on the inside.

The shorter of their interrogators blinked with an innocence that it took the Doctor a moment to recognise as sarcasm. 'Oh, you mean that blank business card, in the little sheath? The old piece of cardboard?'

'It is _not_ old cardboard, you're just not looking at it right!'

"Should I close my eyes the next time I try?"

The Doctor drew down his brows and scowled. It was a good scowl, fury outweighing petulance, but it had no effect on either of them. He straightened his back and turned to the taller man. "What is it you wish to ask?"

'Well, first and foremost how a nameless stranger gets himself tangled within an international manhunt for a serial killer and expects us to immediately assume he is both innocent and uninvolved.'

'But I _am_ innocent! I mean it! Does this face even look capable of lying to you? It's really not very good for it, trust me, the physiognomy's all wrong.'

'Oh?'

'Whoever these lads are, they have nothing to do with me.'

'How so?' The man was a cat playing with a mouse now – letting it go for a moment, playing along, letting it believe its freedom, then snatching it back again.

'Well, look at me! I'm all British and refined and – and _intellectual-looking_ ,' the Doctor looked himself up and down with ill-concealed pride. 'Do these look like the shoes of a man who goes gallivanting off around the dark of America with a pair of overgrown hound dogs? Eh?'

'I think I preferred "moose",' Sam murmured.

The man, as the Doctor had requested, looked at him. It was barely a glance, barely an up-and-down flicker, and yet the Doctor felt a sudden thrill run up his spine, and a spike of adrenalin hit his bloodstream. Analogies to being stripped naked, or x-rayed, or put under a microscope, would have been lacking. How he felt, was a specimen. A subject. Pale grey eyes had swept across his entire body in less than a second, and, so fast that only the Doctor could have caught it, seen everything. In less than a second, less than a glance, this man had taken in every tiny little detail the Doctor's appearance had to offer.

It was inhuman. And, strangest of all – it was familiar.

But no. There on the man's face now was a very human emotion, and that was confusion. It was barely there, only the smallest lowering of the eyebrows, but there it was. The Doctor had confused him. As he bloody well should have.

'You're not British,' he said simply. 'Nor are you refined. And whilst your _shoes_ do not give the impression of an owner who would go "gallivanting" around America...'

Again, the flick of the eyes, faster still this time. He was trying again to deduce the alien before him. And failing. The man's eyes met the Doctor's once more, and they were carefully steeled.

'... You most definitely do.'

The Doctor kept his face as impassive as his opponent's. Yes, opponent. He had the distinct feeling that they had entered a mutual and unspoken battle of wills, their minds both running at the same speed, trying to figure each out before the other. The Doctor knew this man, he was sure of it: a mind like this one was not the sort to be forgotten easily, and coupled with the strange idiosyncrasies – the unblinking, penetrating eyes; the haughty rise of the chin; that near-unnatural _stillness_ – a persona was created that was too extraordinary for him to believe the universe could simply let be.

What was his name? Would he recognise it?

'So,' said the strange not-so stranger, still staring into the Doctor. 'Our John Doe. No recognised fingerprints, no birth records, no passport, no ID, no name –'

'I told the police my name. I'm the Doctor.'

'Yes, the Doctor, I've heard. Doctor, then, my question for you is, if you believe so vehemently that you were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time—'

'That's right.'

'—that you have nothing to do with the Winchesters—'

'That's what I said.'

'— that you are so confused by this whole situation—'

'Absolutely.'

'—Then why did you look so delighted, just now, at seeing Miss Oswald?'

The Doctor opened his mouth. A pregnant moment passed. His eyes flicked to Clara's, then away, deliberating, before returning. 'Well I – I –'

The strange assortment of persons down in the cells of Baltimore's Police Department all waited.

And the Doctor turned to speak directly to Clara.

'You – You remind me, of someone,' he said, slowly. He was very conscious of all pair of eyes on him, and none more heavy than the palest. 'Someone I lost, a long time ago, but – but what only seems only an eye blink before.' He turned back to his interrogator. 'I don't suppose that will be good enough for you, but it is, as a matter of fact, the truth.'

'Dude,' Dean was shaking his head, either in disappointment or amusement. 'You could at least use your imagination.'

'I was very deliberately _not_ using my imagination!' the Doctor exclaimed, rounding on him. 'Which is the direct translation of "to tell the truth" in a lot of languages!' He spun back to face the stranger, and it was quite clear now that all patience had been exhausted. 'I have answered your questions. I have been as honest as I can. Now you will answer _me_ , and show me the same honesty.'

The man raised a single disinterested brow, and by Rassilon, he knew that brow from somewhere.

The Doctor's jaw set into a firm line. His eyes were hard. 'I want you to tell me your name.'

'I scarcely keep it secret,' said he with the smallest smile. 

'Then give it to me.'

And then, like that, the Doctor knew. It was the smallest thing, fast enough for any other eyes to miss it; a mannerism so tiny all others would have dismissed it. It was the little glance at the man beside him. 

And like that, the Doctor knew where he had seen him before. Seen both of them before.

'Sherlock Holmes,' he barely breathed. 'And you – aah, you, you're...' He snapped his fingers irritably. 'Watson! Yes, that's right, John Watson! The soldier!'

The contrast between the complete silence of the room and the complete symphony of tumultuous thoughts inside the Doctor's brain was as though all noise had been drawn directly into him. Quite suddenly his smile of triumph was gone, and he was blinking at the two of them, and between them, and then at everyone else in the room.

'Another fan of yours, I see,' the world's only consulting detective drawled to his most loyal companion. The Doctor barely heard him.

'It's you with that bloody hat that does it these days.' John Watson. 

John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes.

It was more the Doctor's very being, rather than just his skin, that seemed to have gone pale. From face to face his eyes went, taking each of them in. Taking the situation in. It was as though all the energy had gone from him – all his enthusiasm, all his humour, all his optimism. He suddenly looked very tired, and very old.

And the words that the Doctor was thinking as his eyes moved across each of the many faces in the cell, words that he could never possibly say, that hurt to so much as think, were these:

_I don't believe I have ever been in a room so full of people who have all died before_.


End file.
